Songs of Labor and Other Poems | Page 8

fettered hands to show.?On both white wrists a chain!--?She cries and pleads in pain:?"Unbind me!--Let me go!"
I burn with bitter ire,?I leap in wild desire?The cruel bonds to break;?But God! around the chain?Is coiled and coiled again?A long and loathsome snake.
I shout, I cry, I chide;?My voice goes far and wide,?A ringing call to men:?"Oh come, let in the light!?Arise! Ye have the might!?Set Freedom free again!"
They sleep. But I strive on.?They sleep!... Can'st wake a stone?...?That one might stir! but one!?Call I, or hold my peace,?None comes to her release;?And hope for her is none.
But who may see her plight?And not go mad outright!...?"Now: up! For Freedom's sake!"?I spring to take her part:--?"Fool!" cries a voice. I start...?In anguish I awake.
A Tree in the Ghetto
There stands in th' leafless Ghetto?One spare-leaved, ancient tree;?Above the Ghetto noises?It moans eternally.
In wonderment it muses,?And murmurs with a sigh:?"Alas! how God-forsaken?And desolate am I!
"Alas, the stony alleys,?And noises loud and bold!?Where are ye, birds of summer??Where are ye, woods of old?
"And where, ye breezes balmy?That wandered vagrant here??And where, oh sweep of heavens?So deep and blue and clear?
"Where are ye, mighty giants??Ye come not riding by?Upon your fiery horses,?A-whistling merrily.
"Of other days my dreaming,?Of other days, ah me!?When sturdy hero-races?Lived wild and glad and free!
"The old sun shone, how brightly!?The old lark sang, what song!?O'er earth Desire and Gladness?Reigned happily and long
"But see! what are these ant-hills?--?These ants that creep and crawl?...?Bereft of man and nature,?My life is stripped of all!
"And I, an ancient orphan,?What do I here alone??My friends have all departed,?My youth and glory gone.
"Oh, tear me, root and branches!?No longer let me be?A living head-stone, brooding?O'er the grave of liberty."
The Cemetery Nightingale
In the hills' embraces holden,?In a valley filled with glooms,?Lies a cemetery olden,?Strewn with countless mould'ring tombs.
Ancient graves o'erhung with mosses,?Crumbling stones, effaced and green,--?Venturesome is he who crosses,?Night or day, the lonely scene.
Blasted trees and willow streamers,?'Midst the terror round them spread,?Seem like awe-bound, silent dreamers?In this garden of the dead.
One bird, anguish stricken, lingers?In the shadow of the vale,?First and best of feathered singers,--?'Tis the churchyard nightingale.
As from bough to bough he flutters,?Sweetest songs of woe and wail?Through his gift divine he utters?For the dreamers in the vale.
Listen how his trills awaken?Echoes from each mossy stone!?Of all places he has taken?God's still Acre for his own.

Not on Spring or Summer glory,?Not on god or angel story?Loyal poet-fancy dwells!?Not on streams for rich men flowing,?Not on fields for rich men's mowing,--?Graves he sees, of graves he tells.?Pain, oppression, woe eternal,?Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal,?Nothing comforts or allays;?O'er God's Acre in each nation?Sings he songs of tribulation?Tunes his golden harp and plays.
The Creation of Man
When the world was first created?By th' all-wise Eternal One,?Asked he none for help or counsel,--?Simply spake, and it was done!
Made it for his own good pleasure,?Shaped it on his own design,?Spent a long day's work upon it,?Formed it fair and very fine.
Soon he thought on man's creation,--?Then perplexities arose,?So the Lord His winged Senate?Called, the question to propose:
Hear, my great ones, why I called ye,?Hear and help me ye who can,?Hear and tell me how I further?Shall proceed in making man.
Ponder well before ye answer,?And consider, children dear;--?In our image I would make him,?Free from stain, from blemish clear.
Of my holy fire I'd give him,?Crowned monarch shall he be,?Ruling with a sway unquestioned?Over earth and air and sea.
Birds across the blue sky winging?Swift shall fly before his face,--?Silver fishes in the ocean,?Savage lion in the chase.
--How? This toy of froth and vapor,?Thought the Senate, filled with fear,?If so wide his kingdom stretches,?Shortly he will break in here!
So the Lord they answered, saying:--?Mind and strength Thy creature give,?Form him in our very image,?Lord, but wingless let him live!
Lest he shame the soaring eagle?Let no wings to man be giv'n,?Bid him o'er the earth be ruler,?Lord, but keep him out of heav'n!
Wisely said, the Lord made answer,?Lo, your counsel fair I take!?Yet, my Senate, one exception--?One alone, I will to make.
One exception! for the poet,?For the singer, shall have wings;?He the gates of Heav'n shall enter,?Highest of created things.
One I single from among ye,?One to watch the ages long,?Promptly to admit the poet?When he hears his holy song.
Journalism
Written today, and read today,?And stale the news tomorrow!--?Upon the sands I build... I play!?I play, and weep in sorrow:?"Ah God, dear God! to find cessation?From this soul-crushing occupation!?If but one year ere Thou dost call me Thither,?Lord, at this blighting task let me not wither."
Pen and Shears
My tailor's shears I scorned then;?I strove for something higher:?To edit news--live by the pen--?The pen that shall not tire!
The pen, that was my humble slave,?Has now enslaved its master;?And fast as flows its Midas-wave,?My rebel tears flow faster.
The world I clad once, tailor-hired,?Whilst I in tatters quaked,?Today, you see me well attired,?Who